CXXXI
by grimey-gal
Summary: A thing about desire.
1. Chapter 1

The first time he wakes up, stained as if he were a teen experiencing carnal desire for the first time, it was a simple dream. He doesn't remember much right away, just a soft voice and softer touches along his arm, and a whisper of his name.

When he sees Andy in the kitchen, a sudden shiver runs around his thighs, and then he just knows .

The second time he remembers the dream. It is different, and he could swear he smelled the musk of mutual desire within the dream. They're kissing, and Andy pulls his head back, fingers tied into the curls of his hair, and marks him. "You're mine," dream Andy growls, tugging his hair harshly enough to shock his scalp and draw a small cry from his bruising throat. "Don't you forget it."

He wakes shaking, an echo of you belong to me, dolly jerking him over the edge. He's immediately ashamed of the mess and the reasons that led him to make it.

He tries hard not to dream about him. He hates that he thinks about him in this way at all, but it becomes increasingly harder as they become more comfortable around each other. In the morning, he catches glimpses of Andy's chest hair above his low white v neck, and at night, he dreams of it pressed against him, leaving his cock angry with want.

The third dream, he is naked, pinned beneath Andy on the floor, his arms held behind his back with one strong hand. The other pumps into him mercilessly, quickly until he is so close, and then slowly to leave him wanting. They are in the living room, and Andy is still in his work clothes, shirt crumpled and unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up.

"Please," he begs, and dream Andy smirks, a dark light in his eyes.

"Maybe," Andy responds, thrusting three fingers along his prostate so that his legs shake and he moans between his pleading. "But I like hearing you cry for me. I think I'll play with you some more."

Andy hands him a coffee cup in the morning, and he nearly comes just looking at the way Andy's fingers are gripped around the handle. Andy gives him a curious glance when he chokes, but he does not question or pry into it.

The fourth dream is short and he wakes aroused and desperate. He only remembers lying next to Andy, the sheets over them. The sun was catching Andy's eyes, and he remembers Andy touching him lightly, tracing lines and shapes into the soft skin of his stomach, trailing their way inside his thighs. He has never been angrier waking before a dream ended.

Andy's eyes are a golden color of honey. Chucky finds it fitting, but it's also so hard to look Andy in the face without feeling the heat come crawling along his cheekbones and down his neck.

It's a daydream when he's on top of Andy, watching his face contort beneath him, eyebrows arched for aching pleasure, panting. He rolls his hand around the head of Andy's cock and watches as Andy tries to muffle the softest of moans. "Chucky," is all he says, and it's under his breath, but Chucky can still catch the desperation in the air.

"Tell me what you want, my sweet, baby boy," he teases. He thumbs one of Andy's nipples, rolling and pinching until Andy is catching his breath and squirming. "I want to hear you say it."

He never gets to hear him say it. He is in the shop, and Andy is asking him to reach under the front desk for something mundane. The bell on the door rings, and it's busy, some sort of rush hour. He can't hear Andy say his name anymore. It awakens the hunger.

The fifth dream, Andy is so gentle with him he cries. "Don't cry, babydoll," dream Andy says, kissing his cheeks tenderly. His breath is warm against his ear. It only makes him cry more, clinging to Andy like an infant, desperate for the warmth of intimate comfort. "I'm going to take good care of you, I promise."

The way he says good care still bounces around in his heart, pooling warmth in his belly. He thinks about it all the time, and wishes even more that Andy would say it. It's disturbing to discover that this is something he wants so badly.

They get into a fight, because Chucky is so tightly wound up with desire and the pride that stops him from asking for it that he snaps at Andy instead. Andy is dead in his eyes, as if he expected this behavior, and it is disappointing.

He dreams about a fire in Andy's eyes, and strong, decisive arms lifting him and throwing him across Andy's lap. "Naughty thing," dream Andy growls, pulling his shorts down, an arm holding his fighting body in place. "You've been aching for this, haven't you?"

He spanks him with a strong discipline until his ass is red and bruising and he's compliant, pleading for mercy and apologizing for everything he's ever done.

Dream Andy begins to nurse the welts on his sore bottom when he wakes up, his hand already reaching between his legs. It isn't a satisfactory completion, and he lies in bed longer than usual, wishing and whining.

The seventh comes when he naps on the couch and dreams that Andy turns him over, sliding his boxers down to his ankles. Dream Andy angles him so that his ass is exposed upward, a firm hand pressed against his soft belly. He holds his balls and rolls them gently in his hands, and Chucky shudders of anticipation when he feels a hot puff of breath between his cheeks. Andy's beard scratches against the soft skin as he tongues him, humming against the rim and breaking him down to a writhing, wet mess.

He wakes before the dream ends but he thinks about it even as he is conscious. It turns into a dangerous daydream. Fantasy Andy fucks him against the couch, a hand around his throat, making him beg, another hand around his cock, pulling at his need until he's so close, only to stop.

"Please," he whimpers, as he's thrust into just not quite right. He squirms under Andy, his body pleading, wanting, needing. It comes out of him like a wave, and even though it is a fantasy, he can feel himself flushing in reality. "Daddy, please …!"

"Yes, little love," fantasy Andy murmurs against his ear, beard tickling the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. He lets go of his cock, if only to slap his ass harshly on both cheeks. "Tell Daddy what you need, babydoll."

I need to come, Daddy, please , is what he imagines in his head, more often than he cared to admit. He rewinds it and replays it repeatedly until he's coming, mouthing it under his breath.

He takes a shower soon after, shame washing over him. He wants to die. He hates feeling like this. He does not know who to talk to about it; Tiffany would never let him hear the end of it if he told her. He feels so trapped. But the feelings remain, and he yearns, whether he likes it or not. He wonders just when these ideas crept into his mind. What had they done together, he and Andy, that had caused him to drop his guard and let these sort of feelings in for the first time?

When Andy comes home from work and they sit there, watching television as if there is no tension in the air, he imagines that Andy pulls him on his lap and tickles him, making him dance on his knee until he's afraid he'll come right there. He tries to stop the fantasy, but it plays nonetheless, haunting him.

"Go on, baby, it's alright. Come for me," Andy is practically cooing, and his smooth, low voice is enough to bring him over the edge, embarrassed and nerves tingling. "Come on my lap."

Andy accidentally touches his knee searching for the remote, and his cock immediately hardens. But the fantasy remains that, and he shifts himself away from Andy. It is his voice, he knows this now. His voice and his eyes, and his hands. Something about them has triggered a deep desire in him he did not realize he'd been harboring away.

When it's night and he's alone again, he touches himself in the dark, imagining it's Andy beneath the sheet, and he comes quickly, but the arousal lies at the bottom of his gut, waiting. Screaming. It is such a lonely and harrowing thing. He fingers himself until he's shaking, ashamed and tired, and falls asleep, rest only temporary until another fevered dream plagues him.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn't dream much, but the few he has had of late have been disturbing.

He blames it on the fact that he's allowed Chucky to move into his home with him. Every day, he questions the sanity of his decision. He blames it on the alcohol and the weed and the accidental touching of hands or exchange of sexually charged quips. He blames it on the fact that he has not been touched in a long time, and has never really known the intimacy of sex.

He blames it on everything, but it does not change the dreams.

The first one is fairly simple, and fairly vivid. It is the same as it always is, except that for some reason, Chucky is wearing his shirt and the collar is slipping down his shoulder, exposing previously hidden scars and soft freckles. They're on the couch, which is normal, but Chucky leans forward to get a smoke and then his now-long hair is slipping away from his neck.

It is a dream, which is why he leans after Chucky and grabs his shoulders, gently, and begins to press soft, beckoning kisses along the nape of his neck and his shoulder blade. He wakes to Chucky's pleased sighing, and is wet. Sticky. _Mortified_.

He takes as shower and goes to work, but now that he has had this dream, the thoughts continue to haunt him. The idea of it does not disgust him as much as he feels it should, and this makes it all the more difficult. He is snapped at by several customers because he pays little to no attention to his work. He can feel the phantom-warmness of Chucky's skin from the dream, hear the exhale from his mouth, the underbreathed cursing.

"_Fuck_, Andy," Chucky says, when they're mid argument, and Andy feels the blood rush south. But Chucky continues, and it is not his dream. "If you could hear half of the dumb shit that came out of your mouth! Now help me clean up - this blood won't scrub itself off the floor."

Andy rolls his eyes, but when Chucky bends to peel off his clothes, his eyes linger a little too long. Something grows inside him. His heart beats fast in his throat.

He writes about it, and then scraps it, burning the page with his lighter. He knows Chucky reads his writing. It keeps him on eggshells, paranoid of the fact that something in his writing might give away the befuddling emotions he finds himself constantly battling. He waits for the day Chucky decides to use this knowledge against him.

The second dream comes anyways, and Chucky is drenched in blood, hair sticky and clothes ruined. "What're you gonna do? Whip me?" Chucky taunts him.

He picks him up and fucks him on the counter, beer bottles rolling off and crashing against the floor. His hands become stained with the blood, and he isn't sure if it is symbolic or just a kink he hasn't explored and isn't sure he wants to. He fucks him hard, hand on his throat. Chucky pants and curses at him, begging. His eyes are rolling back.

_You fucker, make me cum already. Fuck me harder, fuck…! _

He washes his sheets before Chucky stumbles into the kitchen, unaware. He shouts out something about making coffee, and that if he wants any sugar he'll have to put it in himself.

_Put it in, put it in already_, he hears. He slams a fist against the top of the washer.

"Andy what the fuck are you doing?" Chucky calls out. He doesn't reply. He takes a shower instead and he stays until the water runs cold. It doesn't make the dreams leave him alone. They follow him.

He's drinking with Kristen and Jeeves later that day when a fantasy takes over. Kristen is mid-conversation with Jeeves, and when they intertwine their fingers he sees his fingers pulling Chucky's hair, pressing him against his cock.

"Take it all now," he's growling, and Chucky is scowling up at him, muffled moaning around him. Chucky's small hands are gripping his jeans while he gags, tears forming just in the corners of his eyes. "Give me teeth and I'll leave bruises for weeks."

Kristen says his name before he finds out if Chucky defied him. He's sure he would. He thinks about this more than he'd like. He thinks he likes the idea of this a lot more than he should.

He drinks more when he comes home, and he avoids Chucky, who stares after him in curiosity. "What? Did I say something that hurt your sweet little feelings, huh?" Chucky calls after him. He's drunk, and uncouth, and Andy is already thinking of shameful ways to use his mouth. He goes to his room instead, closing the door, his cock already hardening. He feels electric.

"Aww - don't be like that, _baby_," Chucky is crowing. He locks his door, just in case Chucky plans on trying to come in. He doesn't.

"Oh, baby, _baby_!" Chucky calls in the fourth dream. They're in Andy's bed, Andy shoving his face into the mattress. Chucky is hogtied with red ropes, squirming relentlessly. It doesn't stop him from pushing into him, penetrating him again and again and _again_, until Chucky is practically screaming, drooling into the pillowcase.

"Squeal, little piggie, _squeal_," Andy taunts him, the way Chucky has always done to him. "Cry for more. Cry until your voice wears out."

He wakes up in a rush, panting. He can hear the echoes of dream Chucky sobbing in his ear, pleading for mercy, and it brings him to completion. He doesn't sleep much after that. He is afraid of what he will dream about next.

He finds himself unable to contain himself some days, with he and Chucky being so close. Chucky will smile wickedly at him with teeth, and he'll doze about those teeth in his neck, leaving bruises.

_If I ever see anyone touch you kid, they're dead. You're mine, got that?_

Most of the time, he dreams of himself bringing Chucky to ruin, bearing down on him, breaking him, pulling cry after cry from his mouth as he fucks him. Sometimes, he dreams about it being the other way around, and these scare him more than the rest.

This is the fifth dream. Chucky has him shackled to his bed post on the floor, standing above him, grinning. He's gagged, and Chucky slides the tip of a knife up the flesh of his leg, tapping his ass.

"You're _shaking_," Chucky snickers, and Andy feels heat growing in his belly. "Tell me, is it because you're scared, or because you want this so badly?"

Everytime Chucky talks to him, it makes his skin tingle. Every time they accidentally brush arms or share too close of a personal space, he _burns_. He hopes that Chucky does not notice, but a part of him hopes he does, and this makes him feel disgusted about himself. He drinks this away, and he falls into a greater depression than normal, which his friends notice, but get no answers when they ask him about it.

There are times when he thinks that it will happen in reality. Usually when they are drunk and high and closer than normal. Chucky's voice will change pitch; higher, sweeter, subservient. He will still say the same things he would say when drunk, and is just as foul-mouthed and reckless, but they will lean too close and Andy will think _this is it_.

But then the moment will pass, and he will go to bed, frustrated and confused and afraid. Afraid he exposed himself too much and will have himself found out.

He is at work and the daydreams plague him. They never leave him alone. He envisions Chucky on top of him, rubbing their cocks together, hair over his blue eyes.

"Scared, Barclay?" he asks, his mouth a crooked smile. It is a challenge. A challenge he wants to win. He sees himself flip Chucky over underneath him, slapping his ass, biting down his backbone. Making him whimper.

"Kind of bold for someone who knows who their owner is, don't you think, _button_?" he asks, biting Chucky's earlobe, rewarded by a low moan of surprise and arousal. Chucky grinds up against him, whining for attention.

"If I belong to you, come on and fuckin' play with me then," Chucky murmurs. The bell rings, and Andy is shaken from his reverie to a customer walking in. But his thoughts stay nonetheless. _Don't you want to play with your doll, Andy?_ _I've been waiting for you_. _Please. Don't ignore me, Andy. I need you. I need you_.

When he comes home, Chucky is not there, and he is ashamed to admit he is more disappointed than relieved. Hunger growls in his gut. There is nothing to truly satisfy his need. And even if it was right in front of him, he is not sure he would take it. He goes to his room again, writing and burning his feelings away, bottle in hand. If Chucky comes home, he does not hear it, lost in thought and conflicted.

He touches himself before he sleeps, coming to the conclusion that he will keep it in his dreams, a secret of his own. And when he comes, no one will know why save for himself. The knowledge he will take to his grave.


End file.
